


An Unfortunate Hand

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anal Sex, Bets & Wagers, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Poker, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-08 01:00:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10374276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: Prompto's mouth is dry. His brain's coming up with some pretty amazing mental pictures, just from those words alone. He squirms in his chair, and Gladio laughs. "Someone's interested.""So? I'm into it, what can I say." He shifts again. Even if he loses, there's no order he can think of that he won't love following – not from these guys. "Let's do it.""I'm in," says Noct, not a beat of hesitation."And I," says Ignis."So deal already," says Gladio – and Ignis does, long fingers steady and sure on the cards.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely anon on the meme who asked for:
> 
> The chocobros have some sort of dumb bet going, or maybe Prompto loses at cards. The upshot? He has to do what everyone else says for a week.
> 
> The other chocobros, who know damn well how eager and sensitive Prompto is in bed (and think it's REALLY hot how wound up he gets), decide it would be hilarious not to let him come for the duration of the bet. Cue a week of sexy times with Prompto getting teased out of his mind and doing things for others but not being allowed to finish.
> 
> +++Buttplug in the car. Ignis picks the bumpiest roads he can find, and Prompto is EXTRA squirmy.  
> +++++At some point, Prompto just can't keep his own hands off himself and they tie him up.
> 
>  
> 
> ...this is may be the filthiest thing I've ever written. I'm going to and hide forever now. /)_(\

Day 1

An hour and a half into the longest week of Prompto's life, he's never regretted a hand of cards so much.

At first, they're playing for gil – and that's better. Sure, he doesn't have a whole lot of pocket change, but that just means he can't bet himself under the table.

Iggy puts a stop to playing for money with a stern, "Bear in mind, we're running low on curatives."

So then they're playing for chores – who does dishes after dinner, who has to wash the car next time they splash through a muddy backroad in the rain. And that's fine, too. Sure, Prompto's down a load of laundry and a morning cooking breakfast, but he's hanging in there.

Then the stakes go up.

And Gladio, who's winning like he always does, says, "How bout we sweeten the pot?"

Noct, who isn't far behind, says, "What do you have in mind?"

Gladio makes a show of thinking it over – but looking back, thinking about the way his eyes gleam in the light of the campfire, Prompto's pretty damn sure he's got something in mind from the start. He says, "A week."

Ignis looks intrigued. He leans forward, intent and serious. "Of tasks?"

He's probably calculating how much time a win like that'll save him – but Prompto knows Iggy too well. Two days in, he'll be climbing the walls cause the loser hasn't polished the cutlery to just the right degree of shiny.

"All kinds of tasks," says Gladio, in the low purr that Prompto thinks of as his Bedroom Voice™.

And just like that, thoughts of chores fly out the window. Thoughts of everything wholesome or family-appropriate fly right out the window, and all the blood migrates firmly south. Iggy and Noct are both looking intrigued, now.

Prompto's intrigued, too, if the sudden tightness in his pants is any indication. But he forces his mouth to say: "Uh, dude? Case you didn't notice, I'm coming into this dead last. Kinda not a level playing field."

Ignis makes a considering _hm_ sound. "If we all wish to play along, a single hand with winner takes all would make it fair."

"Or loser takes all," says Noct. "All the chores, all the orders, all the – whatever we come up with." He's got a small smile on his lips, understated and devious – shrugs when they look at him. "What? You're telling me that's not hotter than hell, you're lying."

It _is_ hotter than hell. Prompto's mouth is dry, and his pants are already unbearably tight. His brain's coming up with some pretty amazing mental pictures, just from those words alone. He squirms in his chair, and Gladio laughs. "Someone's interested."

"So? I'm into it, what can I say." He shifts again. Even if he loses, there's no order he can think of that he won't love following – not from these guys. "Let's do it."

"I'm in," says Noct, not a beat of hesitation.

"And I," says Ignis.

"So deal already," says Gladio – and Ignis does, long fingers steady and sure on the cards.

And that's how, an hour and a half later, Prompto's kneeling on the stone ground of the haven, coeurl-print jeans open and pushed down to his thighs, hand on his own cock and mouth on Gladio's.

That's how, an hour and a half later, he's kicking himself for not realizing one of those orders might be, "Don't come until I say so."

So Prompto shudders and shifts – bucks up into his own fingers. And when he gets close again, feels the tightness trembling in his thighs, Ignis' hand closes around his wrist and pulls him away again, gentle but inexorable.

Prompto moans around Gladio's length, a breathy sound.

And Noct, best friend and insufferable tease, says, "Six, he looks good like this." He's sleepy and finished, lolling in his camp chair while he watches the others. He's silent for a minute, eyes half-lidded but full of heat. "Bet we could keep him this way all week."

Prompto feels a shiver go down his spine at the promise. Impossibly, his cock gets harder – twitches between his legs. He tries to say something, but his mouth is full of Gladio. It comes out a muffled sound.

Ignis runs a gloved hand up his bare thigh. He leans forward to kiss the line of Prompto's jaw, and he says, "I'm amenable."

"Oh, fuck, yeah," says Gladio – and he jerks his hips again, twice, hard, and spills down Prompto's throat.

 

* * *

 

Day 2

"How is this only the second day?" Prompto asks the ceiling of the Leville, mournfully.

And Noct laughs at him – actually _laughs_ at him – before bending his head to mouth at the junction between Prompto's neck and shoulder. When he pushes in again, Prompto's seeing stars.

"Ha ha," says Prompto. "Very funny. I'm in hysterics here –"

Noct shifts at just the right angle, and Prompto suddenly forgets what he was saying. His back arches up off the bed; his toes curl against the sheets. The sharp gasp he takes in slips out as a whine.

"Highness," says Iggy, warningly, from somewhere near the footboard.

And Noct, who's made it his mission in life to avoid listening to Ignis since he was fifteen years old, is exactly infuriating enough to listen to him now. He stills completely, half-seated in Prompto's ass; the motionless weight of him, no friction, is absolutely maddening.

"Noct, come on," says Prompto. He lifts his hips, trying to entice. "Come on, keep going."

Gladio's running a hand through Iggy's hair, looking relaxed and sated and thoroughly debauched. He says, "My gods, would you look at that. Better take five, Noct. He's not gonna last."

"I know," says Noct. He narrows his eyes down at Prompto when he rocks again, trying to get them moving. "I mean it, Prom. All week. Quit trying to cheat."

And hell if those words don't go straight to his cock. Somehow, he's even harder, that particular mix of sounds in that particular order apparently the key to a lava flow that washes right over every one of Prompto's nerves.

He wants to come. He does. He doesn't think he's ever been so turned on in his godsdamn life. He wants to reach down and take himself in his hand and jerk it till he explodes – probably all of about twenty seconds, in this state.

But Prompto's got a bet to live up to. And he's got to admit, if this is day two, he can't wait to see what day seven's going to be like.

Noct takes more than five minutes. He takes ten.

Then they do another round, slow and careful, making sure Prompto doesn't get too worked up and tip over the edge. Noct's got to be feeling it by now, too; Prompto can tell by the measured crease of his brow, the way he bites at his lower lip, like he does when he's concentrating.

They have to break again; Prompto's shaking under Noct, skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat.

Ignis watches them, considering. He says, "Noct, do you require assistance?"

It's flattering how fast Noct nods his head. "Yeah. Specs, can you –"

Ignis' hands appear on Noct's chest; long fingers seek out Noct's nipples and toy with them. Gladio leans in to nuzzle against Noct's neck, to lick a solid stripe of wetness down the line of his throat.

Prompto's cock is still lying hard against his stomach, untouched. There's a small pool of precome, there in the hollow by his belly button.

Round three's not so slow. Noct's close; he can feel it in the trembling arms that hold him up above Prompto, feel it in the desperation of the thrusts shoving him back against the blankets.

Prompto tips his head back and moans, long and shaky. He's close, too – thinks he could come like this, untouched, with the feel of Noct in him and the sight of Iggy and Gladio, putting their hands all over Noct's pale skin.

Noct beats him to it.

He stills –goes rigid – jerks forward twice more as he pulses his completion.

Then he slumps forward onto Prompto, boneless and satisfied – and between them, Prompto's cock twitches and throbs, still painfully hard.

 

* * *

 

Day 3

Prompto did not plan for this bullshit when they left Insomnia.

When he was packing pants – when he was designing his Crownsguard fatigues, in all their patch-laden coeurl-print glory – one of his considerations was absolutely not whether jeans this tight would make a sex bet even worse.

But now, here he is, three days in, hating Lestallum and its heat with every fiber of its being.

The hot weather means that a good three-quarters of the guys are wandering around shirtless and the ladies – on lunch break, lean and muscled from their labor-intensive jobs at the power plant – have their coveralls pulled down to reveal undershirts that don't cover much more than a bra.

And the sight of every single one of them is making his erection worse.

Every. Single. One.

He wonders if the shape of him's visible through his jeans – shifts uncomfortably at the thought, mortified at even the possibility. So of course, that's exactly the moment when Gladio follows his sight line to a spectacular brunette with all the right curves. "Problems?" he says.

Prompto tries to scowl, but he's too busy blushing. "Don't be a jerk."

He thinks those problems are over when they get in the car to leave, but no. His friends are apparently intent on making his suffering never-ending. They've been driving all of ten minutes, Prompto just finally letting his mind start to wander to subjects that aren't how much he'd love to lock himself in the bathroom for a quickie with his hand, when Gladio reaches up from the back seat and runs his fingers up Prompto's thigh.

Prompto squeaks. He jerks at the unexpected touch, half-turning – catches sight of Noct's interested smirk. Then he sees Gladio, shit-eating grin in full force.

"Gladio," Prompto practically whines. "Come _on_. Give a guy a break."

"I dunno," says Gladio, thoughtfully. "You had a break all morning in Lestallum. Not one set of hands on you, since we left the hotel."

The set of hands on him now are drifting higher – rucking up his vest, to skirt along the skin of his stomach. Prompto shudders, and shifts. His erection aches, trapped in his jeans.

He says, "Okay, but if you're gonna be a bastard, can we at least, like, move it along?" Prompto goes for the zipper – stills when Gladio grabs at his wrist.

"Not a chance," says Gladio. "I like my presents gift-wrapped."

So the zipper stays up.

Gladio spends most of the rest of the afternoon in idle exploration – teasing touches to his thighs, or his hip, or his chest. By the time they reach their destination, Prompto's cursing the man's ridiculous freaking wingspan, which gives him easy access despite the chair between them. He's also thanking his lucky stars that his jeans are dark fabric, because he feels damp and sticky, and he's pretty sure there's enough precome by now to have gone straight through his underwear.

He's half dreading camp, and half looking forward to it.

He's never wanted to unzip his jeans more than he does in this very moment, but with that's going to come a whole slew of requests that he'll have to deal with, and him fighting to keep his hands off himself the whole while. Prompto's busy thinking about it – busy making his mental wishlist of what exactly tonight will entail – as they pitch the tent and stoke the fire, and gods, even innocuous camping terms seem filthy now to his sex-starved brain.

When finally the last chair falls into place and he goes for his regular seat, Gladio just shakes his head. "Uh-uh," he says. "Change of pace tonight."

He pats his lap.

Prompto feels himself grow red, a slow burn creeping across his face and up to his ears. He shoots a pleading look at Ignis, and then at Noct – is met with cool indifference and naked intrigue, respectively.

No help there – so he sighs and settles himself gingerly on the edge of Gladio's lap, so that his legs hang off sideways.

"Nice try," Gladio tells him, and scoots Prompto over until he's fully centered – back so that he's almost leaning against Gladio's broad chest.

A big hand parts his legs – spreads them until they're hanging open, one on either side of Gladio's thighs. The position absolutely erases any leeway he had in the room-in-his-pants department. The new angle makes the denim tug and tighten, tantalizing pressure.

Then Gladio rests his palm against the bulge in the fabric, the first time Prompto's been touched since this morning, and he lets his head fall back, a decidedly undignified whimper slipping out of him.

"Get comfy," Gladio tells him. "We're gonna be here for awhile."

 

* * *

 

Day 4

"Bet you're on a hair trigger right now," says Noct.

Prompto pulls back long enough to say, "Uh, dude? Maybe be nice to the guy who's sucking you off."

Then he goes back to sucking Noct off.

Noct's hands are buried in his hair – not gripping, just petting. It feels kind of amazing. He's never noticed before, how sensitive his scalp is.

Noct says, "Bet I could have you begging for it in like thirty seconds."

Prompto thinks that's generous. He thinks he'd last maybe five, tops, considering Noct's worked him up and backed off three times already.

"Want me to do that?" Noct says. His hand trails from Prompto's scalp to his jaw – caresses him gently with the pad of one thumb. "Have you ask for it?"

Prompto shudders.

His cock gives a slow twitch between his legs, as though in answer.

It's even worse – or better, he can't decide – knowing that Gladio and Ignis are just outside the tent, sure to hear. The regular, everyday sounds of breakfast being cooked and coffee being consumed are a backdrop to the king of Lucis, rocking his hips slow and languid into Prompto's mouth.

Prompto keeps hoping one of them will come in and say that they're burning daylight, and shouldn't they get on the road? But of course, just his luck – no one makes an appearance, so Noct's taking his time.

Well, Prompto can help speed that along.

He bobs his head – applies careful suction. When he hears Noct's breath stutter, he pulls back just long enough to swirl his tongue around the tip.

Noct says, "Come day seven, I figure we'll pretty much owe you." His breathing's ragged, voice husky with want. "If you ask nice enough, we'd probably let you pick how to finish out the week."

Prompto's thought of very little besides how he wants to finish out the week. With three lovers, there are a hell of a lot of possibilities, and he's entertained every one of them in great detail. The notion that he might get to choose floods him with heat all over again, and Prompto moans softly.

The vibrations must do something for Noct. He shifts and arches, lifting up into Prompto's mouth – settles back down, as always preferring to be worked over rather than actually put in effort.

He says, "I could repay the favor," in a casual, off-handed tone, like he's commenting on the weather. "Would you like that?"

Prompto hisses a sharp breath in, through his nose. He can picture it, suddenly, in vivid color, with an absurd amount of detail: Prompto lying back on some shitty caravan cot, Noct stretched out between his knees, lips and tongue working.

Just the thought has a new drop of precome squeezing itself from Prompto's cock, in adoring memory of the incredible things Noct can do with his mouth.

The hands in Prompto's hair resume petting, almost tenderly. "I can't wait to see your face," Noct tells him. His voice is softer now, pitched for only Prompto's ears.

Prompto bobs his head – slicks his tongue along the underside of Noctis' cock, where he likes it.

Noct's trembles, the muscles in his lithe form growing taut and hard. He says, "Prom, hey. I'm gonna –"

And Prompto, swimming in a sea of want and affection, swallows him down to the hilt, absurdly proud of the soft cry he wrings from his usually quiet best friend.

 

* * *

 

Day 5

If Prompto's learned anything about Ignis from this road trip, it's three things.

One, that Ignis is amazingly, utterly put-together, even at four o'clock in the morning when he's awakened by some minor crisis. Two, that he's genius level at pretty much everything – like, seriously, he should be in the Lucian Book of Records for car-packing skills alone.

And three? Three is that he is an absolute godsdamned sadist.

The hell of it is, this last one comes as a revelation, five days in. He's never even hinted until now.

Prompto's used to Ignis' calm voice and patient words. He's used to Ignis' stern lectures about appropriate behavior.

He is _not_ used to Ignis bending him over a rock outcropping at the haven when they're done packing away their camping gear. He's not used to Ignis using a quarter of a container of lube and making sure Prompto can take three fingers, easy, until he's squirming for more. He's not used to Ignis sliding a Six-only-know-where-he-bought-it sex toy up inside of him, until the widest part is settled, flared base and narrow neck combining to make a fit that means it's not going anywhere anytime soon.

And all of that? All of that would have been fine. He gets down on his knees, there on the scrub grass and dirt, and sucks Iggy off, a hand each on Gladio and Noct, until they're all finished, and Prompto needs a towel to clean himself off. Business as usual, these past few days.

No, what qualifies Ignis as a genuine, card-carrying sadist is the fact that, when they're done, he brushes himself off as though he's engaged in nothing more strenuous than a morning stroll. He says, "Make yourself presentable, Prompto. It's time to be on our way."

"Uh," says Prompto. "Little help here?"

He can get the toy out on his own, sure, but it'll be faster with Iggy to lend a hand. But Ignis only fixes him with an inscrutable look and says, "I should hope you can manage a zipper by yourself."

Prompto stares at him. Ignis stares back, level and unfazed.

Noct and Gladio share a grin that's anticipatory and kind of wondering.

"You've got to be kidding me," Prompto says.

But Ignis isn't kidding him.

An hour later, Prompto's in the Regalia's front seat, acutely aware of the toy still inside of him. Not every angle makes contact against his prostate – he'd have come all over himself if it did, bet or no bet – but when he shifts just right and grinds into it, he can get the edges to brush where he wants it to be.

Every tiny imperfection in the road jars the thing. He can feel each bump in excruciating detail, and he's gone from zero interest in civic planning to silently loathing the poor road upkeep in the Lucian countryside in a remarkably short amount of time. Prompto braces for every pothole, trying to anticipate the worst of it. When he sees one coming, he can scoot forward, so that his own weight doesn't press the toy further in.

Even as he scans the road, he spots another one.

Prompto shifts in his seat again, trying to find a position that's not torturous pleasure – inadvertently rocks when the car does, biting at his lower lip. He wants to reach down to adjust himself through his jeans, but Ignis has already told him in no uncertain terms that this is a hands off sort of event.

Now, with a tone that brooks absolutely no argument, the advisor says, "Kindly stop squirming, Prompto."

"Yeah," Prompto says, swallowing thickly. "Sorry."

And he even manages to keep it up when gravel on the road makes for a very interesting vibration indeed.

For all of about five seconds, until he tightens his thighs and lifts up off the seat slightly, to try and catch a bit of a break.

"Gladiolus," says Ignis, tone curt and displeased. "Would you assist Prompto with his seatbelt? He seems unable to stay where he's put."

Prompto's just taking those words in when big hands reach up from behind him. They settle the chest belt snug against him – set the lap belt directly across the straining bulge in the denim of his jeans. Those hands linger longer than they need to, getting the belt fastened – palm him through the fabric.

Prompto groans and lets his head fall back against the seat. "Be good, now," Gladio advises, Bedroom Voice™like an elixir of pure, distilled sex.

"Yeah," Noct chips in, from where he's lounging in the back, taking it all in with half-lidded eyes. "You don't want to cross Specs."

"Indeed," Ignis says. "I expect you to be an absolute role model of proper behavior. That means still, and patient. Am I understood?"

Distantly, Prompto is aware of the sound of the Regalia's blinker. Distantly, he's aware that he should be worried by that.

"Yeah," he manages. "Won't move a muscle. Got it."

"Excellent," says Ignis – and pulls out onto a dirt road that stretches for miles.

 

* * *

 

Day 6

Prompto can't sleep.

Gods know he's tried, but he's crammed into the tent with three mind-meltingly sexy men, all of who've come their brains out in the last two hours, and here he is, one day from bet's end, harder than he's ever been in his life.

He's pretty sure his cock could cut diamonds. He's pretty sure he's been hard for like an hour now, not doing anything but trying to forget the feel of hands all over him. His chocobo print sleep shorts are damp at the front from the precome, and his head won't stop playing through likely scenarios for tomorrow.

Gods, he wants it to be tomorrow already.

Prompto reaches for himself without even thinking.

His body's hard-wired for it; hard-ons need a hand like peanut butter needs jelly. It's buried in endless nights as a teenager, tissues and lotion and furtive strokes, trying hard not to think about Noct, back before he worked up the courage to confess.

And it's not like he's going to finish. He's not the kind of guy who'll skip out on a bet. Besides, he's looking forward to day seven too much to ruin it.

He just wants to take the edge off.

So his hand slips inside his sleeping bag – edges down the waistband of his shorts. His fingers find the head of his cock and trace along it. He bites down a gasp and rocks into the touch, even his own hand feeling like heaven to oversensitized nerves.

He tickles and teases, not full strokes, because he knows damn well that anything more firm would send him catapulting over the edge. Still, it's not long before he's squirming in his sleeping bag, unable to keep still – unable to take his hand off himself, now that he's started.

It feels so good, he almost can't bear to stop. He comes tremblingly close – has to still the motion of his fingers for a minute so that he can subside, panting.

It's not until he opens his eyes again, after he's come down, that he realizes Noct's not sleeping any longer. He's lying there in the darkness of the tent, eyes intent and wanting.

"Gonna cheat?" he says, very quietly.

And Prompto shakes his head. "Just – just needed to take the edge off. A little something."

"Uh huh." Noct's reply is so flat that Prompto's not sure what to make of it – not until he sits up in his sleeping bag, unzipping the front of Prompto's own. "Hands up," he says.

"What?" Prompto frowns up at him. "Why?"

"Hands," Noct says again, and Prompto complies, uncertain, lifting both arms above his head.

Noct's belt wraps around Prompto's wrists, three times. Prompto tests it, inconspicuously – find that it holds.

"Come on," Prompto says, trying to put his bound hands back down. "I got this. I don't need your belt, dude."

"Plainly you do," Noct tells him, in a tone that carries a note of command. Then he zips Prompto's sleeping bag up to his chin, leaving his arms to poke out the top.

He feels ridiculous. He probably _looks_ ridiculous, and Gladio and Ignis are going to wake up in the morning and see him, and then Noct will tell them what he caught Prompto doing.

Even the thought makes him harder.

"Noct," Prompto says, softly. "C'mon, buddy. Lemme out."

"Not a chance," Noct tells him – and then shoves Prompto's sleeping bag, hard, so that he rolls over onto his stomach.

It's about twenty times worse, all at once. Suddenly, his throbbing erection is trapped against the padded layer of the sleeping bag, all of Prompto's weight putting pressure on it. He rocks forward, and the friction is incredible.

"Go to sleep, Prompto," says Noctis, king of Lucis and unrepentant asshole.

Prompto groans into the floor. "You're the worst friend ever," he says. "You know that?"

 

* * *

 

Day 7

They check into Galdin Quay at nearly five in the evening, and Prompto's already a wreck.

He's spent the day with Ignis' toy buried inside of him – punishment for trying to cheat his way out of the terms of the bet, no matter how much he swore he wasn't going to actually finish himself off.

When they finally get their luggage into the hotel room, everyone goes about their business as though nothing's amiss. They take turns in the shower – Noct supervising Prompto, so that he's not tempted – and then they lounge around the room. Prompto sits on the bed, trying not to squirm.

He finally breaks at half past six. "Uh, guys?" he says. "It's the last day. Just, y'know. A friendly reminder."

"Is it?" Gladio asks, idly, and flips a page in his book.

Ignis says, "What exactly did you intend for us to do about it?"

Prompto swallows. His sleep shorts are already tented in the front. They have been since he changed into them, after the shower, and the toy's still a solid weight inside of him, at once too much and not enough.

"I dunno," says Prompto. He bites at his lip. "Something, though? Noct said, uh –"

It's like Noct's reading his mind. He says, "That you could pick how to finish out the week?"

Prompto nods so fast he thinks he might give himself whiplash. Everyone's eyes are on him, varying degrees of amused.

"So," Noct breathes, and leans in, tantalizingly near. "What did you decide?"

"Anything," Prompto blurts. " _Everything_. Just, can we get started? I'm dying here."

"Everything, huh?" Noct's tone is level and somehow ominous. "I think we can manage that. Hands up, Prom."

Prompto's mouth is suddenly dry. He lifts his hands up, aware that they're shaking – watches as Noct slides Prompto's sleep shirt off and then lays him down. Pale hands wrap a strip of fabric around each of Prompto's wrists, cinching them to the top posts of the headboard. When he lays back, he feels open and terribly exposed.

They must have planned this, because they're somehow all on exactly the same page. They run their hands all over him, on his bare chest and thighs. Gladio's fingers pluck at his nipples, and Noct's thumb caresses the curve of his hip, where he's stupidly sensitive, and Ignis rakes carefully groomed fingernails down Prompto's abdomen.

He's already a dripping mess. He rocks backward, trying to get the toy deeper.

"Guys," he manages. "Come on. Can we speed this up?"

"If you insist," says Ignis, prim and proper, and with no more preamble, he slides Prompto's sleep shorts down and takes his cock in hand.

Ignis' hand jobs are a work of art. They always have been, precise and attentive. Iggy's a quick study, so he always knows exactly where to touch, and exactly how much pressure is the right amount to make Prompto squirm. He's not holding anything back, and Prompto's shaking in about a minute flat, ready to come with toe-curling intensity.

Then Ignis stops.

It takes Prompto's lust-addled brain a moment to catch up. "Huh?" he manages.

Noct smirks down at him. "Well," he says. "You did say _everything_."

Gladio tweaks a nipple again, and Prompto whimpers softly. "And you tried to skip out early. Like hell we're making this easy on you."

Prompto's got a sinking feeling. He's suddenly afraid he knows where they're going with this.

It's a suspicion that's absolutely confirmed when they give him what he asked for: everything.

They take turns with him, stroking him right up until the end and then backing off. Then they go at him with their mouths, all wet heat and mind-melting pleasure, always pulling back just a moment too soon. Prompto gets louder and louder; what started as breathy moans and soft sighs turn into groans of utter frustration as the night wears on.

At last, Noct goes to ease the toy out, and Prompto's head falls back against the pillow, even that much sensation incredible to his overstimulated body.

"You ready?" Noct asks, almost tenderly, as he slips one finger into the empty space the toy left behind. His other hand is slicking up his own cock. "I did mean everything."

"Gods, Noct," Prompto whines. "Go, yes, please, just –"

Noct slides into him with one long thrust, the toy's stretch easing the passage. He's longer than the plug; he reaches places it didn't. Prompto's hips jerk up into him, trying to get more, faster, _now_.

Noct's having none of it. It's like that second night, stop and go. Noct waits when Prompto gets too close – starts up again when he's cooled down. It takes him twenty minutes to come that way, Prompto achingly hard beneath him. Then he presses a gentle kiss to Prompto's collar bone and makes way for Ignis.

Ignis makes loves the way he does everything: with great care, and fastidious attention to detail. He knows precisely where Prompto's prostate is. He hits it precisely often enough to keep Prompto on the edge of insanity, but nowhere near often enough to bring him off. When he finishes, Prompto's gasping for air, open-mouthed, an absolute wreck lying there in the sheets.

Then it's Gladio's turn. And Gladio may not have any of Iggy's finesse, but gods, does he make up for it in size. He dwarfs the toy – fills Prompto up until he feels like he'll burst. Every thrust comes with the force of a sledgehammer, and he has to stop so many times that Prompto thinks he's going to cry.

He dripping all over himself by the time Gladio finishes. The precome is a puddle on his stomach, so much of it that he would be frankly embarrassed in any other situation. Now, he's too far gone to care.

When Gladio pulls out, Noct pets his hair and tells him to hang tight.

Then they leave him there, still achingly hard, tied so tight he can't flip over and lie stomach down. If he could, he'd rub himself off against the sheets. He's just that desperate.

He's not sure how long they're out of sight, but he can hear them there in the sitting room of the suite, talking and doing regular, everyday things. It's torture, listening to them relax while he's trapped in a lightning storm of want.

He's not sure how long they leave him. It might be minutes; it feels like days. But finally – _finally_ – he hears footsteps on carpet and looks up to see that they've returned.

"It's past midnight," Noct tells him.

"Oh, thank the Six," says Prompto.

"Remember what I said about asking for it?"

Prompto remembers. His cock twitches against his stomach, and there's absolutely no hesitation when he says, "I'm asking. Consider this asking. Noct, please, can we? Please?"

Noct's gaze drifts to Ignis, and then to Gladio. He says, thoughtfully, "What do you think?"

"Eh," says Gladio. "Four of ten."

Ignis makes a considering _hm_ sound. "He can do better than that."

Noct lifts his shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. One hand drifts down to toy idly with the tip of Prompto's cock, just enough to tease. "You heard the man."

" _Please_ ," Prompto gasps. "Please, please – I've never needed anything so bad in my entire life. I'm going to – to explode, or something. Would you please just –"

Gladio gives a thumbs up. Ignis offers a grudging nod.

And Noct bends down, face smug and fond, to lick up the length of Prompto's cock and then swallow him whole.

It's the best thing Prompto's ever felt, wet and hot and so, so good. Every tiny motion of his tongue, every pull of his lips, takes Prompto higher. He's spiraling somewhere above the clouds now. There are noises coming out of his mouth that he didn't even know he could make.

His eyes squeeze shut; his back arches up off the bed, like a thousand volts are running through him. His hips are moving of their own accord, weak jerks that bury him deeper in the absolute bliss of Noct's mouth. He wants to feel bad that he's not controlling himself, really he does, but he's way, way past that point.

When he comes, it crashes over him like a tidal wave, huge and crushing. Prompto actually wails, a wavering, drawn-out sound that echoes from the walls.

And Noct works him through it, attentive lips and careful tongue. He rubs circles into Prompto's thigh with the pads of his fingers, until the tremors have passed.

When he's finished, Noct pulls back and presses a kiss to his hip bone. Gladio's already untying the cloth holding him to the headboard; Ignis has produced a wet washcloth from somewhere, and he's using it, very gently, to clean Prompto up.

"Good?" Noct asks him, smirking like a cat with very expensive cream.

"Wow," Prompto says, dazed. "That was. Wow."

He wants to add more, but his brain seems fuzzy and distant, floating somewhere far away. He's aware through the euphoria that he's got a stupid grin on his face.

"As entertaining as that was," Ignis says. "We do have to be on our way in the morning. I would suggest we all attempt to get some sleep."

"Already on it," says Prompto. And he is. His body feels boneless and light; his eyelids are heavy. He's not going to be awake much longer.

Gladio snorts. "Not in the wet spot, champ." Big hands reach down to rearrange him; there's a rustle of fabric, as Ignis puts down an extra blanket to cover the damp sheets.

Then he feels Noct slip in beside him and curl up against his back. A minute more, and the bed creaks – Iggy and Gladio joining them.

He's aware of a hand in his hair, stroking – aware of an arm around him, familiar and encircling – aware of a thumb trailing over the ridge of his shoulder, a slow back and forth. He's not sure whose hand is whose, but Prompto doesn't care. He drifts off to sleep that way, surrounded by their warmth.


End file.
